The Wicked Game
by dreamscometruex
Summary: Sherlock has a new case to solve. And a new neighbor. Could she be the answer to solving the mystery, or the mystery itself? "The game is on, dear Sherlock."


**Not sure if I'll continue this, but I started writing it a while ago and I thought I'd share this much :) Reviews are very much appreciated. and not that you need to know (pretty obvious) I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS EXCEPT AMELIA. (and any other character I might add)**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Wicked Game**

what a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way

what a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you

Sherlock arrived at the police station almost immediately after receiving an urgent call.

"What's the emergency?" He asked, as he stormed in the room, interrupting a conversation between the chief of police and his assistant.

"Ah, Sherlock. Just the man I wanted to see." The chief announced, gesturing him to sit on the chair opposite his. "Leave us Emily." He told his assistant and the girl quickly left.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically. The chief leaned forward on his chair, his face hardening with all seriousness. "There has been a murder."

Opposite to anyone else's reaction, Sherlock's face brightened. "Finally. Things were getting a little dull around here."

The chief ignored him and continued. "A man in his early thirties. Poisoned."

"Hm, I was hoping for something more original…" Sherlock trailed off, feigning disappointment by dropping his head.

"The poison was Hemlock." At that, Sherlock's head snapped up.

"What?" But he knew exactly what. They had called him here for a reason.

"I hear you have experience with this poison. Maybe you could find the murderer _this_ time." The chief handed him a file on the case, Sherlock took it, mind lost in thought.

"There's only one person who would use that poison." Sherlock declared.

"And that person is locked up." The chief pointed out.

Sherlock restrained himself from insisting upon this. He said goodbye to the chief and left. His mind recalling past events…

* * *

**A Year Ago**

"It doesn't make sense!" Sherlock shouted, banging his fists against the cold brick wall of his apartment. He had been through this case a thousand times. And yet he had no conclusion. No explanation. Not even his skull could help him.

"I'm trying to study here, Sherlock." His neighbour peeked through the unlocked door of his apartment. "It might help if you don't shout every five minutes."

Sherlock turned to her. Her long brown hair was tugged behind her ears, and her green eyes were staring at him expectantly. She seemed tired as if she hadn't slept for days, probably because of all the men that had been roaming around in her apartment. She had only recently moved in next to him and was already annoying him.

"I'm working Amelia." He said rudely, hoping this would encourage her to leave. "So if you don't mind-"

"I do." Amelia interrupted him, entering his apartment. "But I can see you won't stop no matter how much I complain so you might as well let me in on the fun. Maybe I can help." She smirked, looking around the walls. They were covered in evidence of the case he couldn't put his finger on.

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "Unless you can tell me who is the culprit in these murders, you can't help."

"I accept that challenge. It will greatly increase my self-esteem." Amelia grinned at him.

"I doubt it could get any higher." He mocked her.

Amelia rolled her eyes at his comment and made herself comfortable on his armchair, picking up the case. "Seven murders." She read. "All killed by Hemlock." Her face scrunched up. "Why would anyone use Hemlock?"

"No idea." Sherlock responded as he studied his evidence for the millionth time.

"Well this is an event to remember: the great Sherlock Holmes, bested by a murderer." She teased him.

"There is still time." He said, convinced. Amelia raised an eyebrow, confused. "He won't stop at seven. He'll keep going." He explained to her.

"How can you be so sure?" She asked.

"There's a pattern." He told her, not even quite sure_ why _he was telling her any of this. "The murderer kills someone every two weeks. And it's not a coincidence."

"It's not?"

"No. He wants his victims to _know_ when they're going to die. And how." He continued. "The next victim already knows he's going to die. I just need to find out who it is. It must be some sort of revenge. Definitely. They all did something to the murderer. But _what_?"

"What if this person is completely mental and kills people at random?" Amelia shrugged.

"They wouldn't go through all this trouble. No, this person is sane. And brilliant."

"But why wouldn't the next victim call the police?" She questioned, standing up from the armchair. "It just doesn't make sense."

"Exactly. It doesn't make sense… unless people finding out what they are being killed for is worse than death itself."

Amelia nodded at this. "So how do you intend to solve this?"

"By finding the next victim." He stated, grabbing his coat and exiting the room. As he expected, Amelia was on his heels. Normally he wouldn't have wanted her to tag along, but she _had_ cleared his mind and helped him figure out the motive. Now all he had to do was find the killer.

* * *

**Present Day**

John was waiting for him once he returned home.

He was sitting in an armchair, reading the newspaper. He immediately put it down when he saw Sherlock walk in. "What was the call about?"

"Murder." Sherlock replied simply, dropping the file on the nearest table, close enough for John to reach. And he did.

He skimmed through it, and frowned at the murder weapon. "Hemlock? Who still uses that?" He asked, confused.

"No one." Sherlock agreed.

"Apparently someone does." John contemplated.

"There's only one person who used Hemlock to kill its victims."

"Socrates assassin?" John joked, mocking the Greek philosopher who had indeed been murdered with Hemlock. Although this resulted in receiving a glare from Sherlock, and that made him fall silent.

"No." Sherlock rolled his eyes at his roommate. "About a year ago, killings started taking place in London." He explained. "They had nothing in common with each other except for Hemlock. Some drank it. Some were injected with it." John listened carefully, trying to understand where Sherlock was going with this. "Eight people were killed altogether."

"Did you find out who the murderer was?" John asked, expecting a "yes, obviously". But he got none. Sherlock avoided his glance and kept quiet. "You didn't, did you?"

"No." Sherlock admitted. "It drove me insane. These people had absolutely _nothing _in common." He spoke slowly, for once. "There were no clues, no nothing."

"So you think it's the same murderer?" John inquired.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "But the police don't."

"And why is that?" John wondered.

"Because she's all locked up in a mental institution."

It took a while for John to process that information. _She_… it was a woman. And she had been caught or she wouldn't be in a mental institution… but not by Sherlock. But why a mental hospital? Why not prison?

He had so many questions but when he looked up to ask them, Sherlock was gone.

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**The end. I have another small part ready but only if some of you are interested ;)**


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